After being purged from the ranks of Manson International (see earlier memoir) just in time for Christmas 1985 I spent most of 1986 watching the TV series Berlin Alexanderplatz in a bourboned haze while polishing feature scripts to a greasy sheen. In the fall the phone rang. A former co-worker at Manson, [...]Read Full Article →

My significant other and I arrived in Los Angeles in 1977. We’d driven a “drive-away” Impala through a cross country blizzard from Boston. Her mother Natasha had snared us a one bedroom in the apartment sprawl she lived in. It was a terraced bunker uphill from the Whiskey a Go-Go. [...]Read Full Article →